Just Here for Littering

Just Here for Littering Erin Wisti (bio) I wanted to say no. I hated Starbucks. The entire place smelled like it was wrapped in plastic, sealing the customers inside a shell of coffee beans and artificial flavoring. It was free of any conversation that didn't involve the ordering of frappuccinos or mocha lattes. Everyone was plugged into iPods or laptops as they roasted in the far too bright overhead lighting, clattering away on their keyboards and iPhones. Plus, you couldn't use the bathroom without buying something. This always seemed unfriendly. Generally, I tried to avoid the place, but on that day I could not have said no. My mother taught me sick people should always get whatever they want. I had no choice but to take him. He sat across from me at our table, reading a copy of Watchmen. The glossy, yellow and black cover reflected the fluorescent lighting onto his glasses. I called them his "Henry Kissinger glasses" because large frames and thick rims resting on a wrinkled, fifty-one year old nose are always reminiscent of Kissinger. My father's face, square-like with a pronounced nose and untraceable jaw line, also reminded me of Nixon's ancient secretary of state. I studied his face as he read. My choice of book for the day—Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café—had proved uninspiring and it was clear no conversation was going to take place on our outing. A small beam of white light trickled down the golden frames and swept across the lenses as he turned the book's page. We were at a Barnes and Noble that housed a Starbucks in its center, a common feature of bookstores in the Midwest. We were away in Rochester, Minnesota, the land of romantic imagery. Bright green trees filled with fresh purple lilacs lined the Zumbro River, where slender black and tan Canadian geese floated alongside canoes. These canoes were driven by happy suburban families who looked like they were posing for ads in Eddie Bauer or JC [End Page 68] Penney's, donning new spring clothing in coordinated shades of pastels. I walked down the asphalt path by this river many times that week, puttering behind my father. In his light gray sweat pants which sagged at his crotch, he marched in front of me, taking long, sweeping strides while periodically checking his heart rate. He wore expensive, Nike-brand running shoes, one of the many new toys we bought for him when we found out he was sick. He was quite pleased with how they improved his pace. I, however, wore cheap plastic flip-flops from CVS and waddled behind him and took pictures. I photographed the lilacs and the geese and the suburbanites, the whole time wondering if taking pictures was morbid considering the nature of my visit. I was visiting because he was sick and because he was sick, I had to take him to Starbucks. His phone rang. It had been ringing all morning, even before we left Hope Lodge to get coffee. I wasn't following the conversation closely. It was lawyer talk, a phenomenon I had been familiar with since childhood. He would waltz through the hallway at night in his tattered red robe, barking legal terms into our cordless phone while making his way through a pack of Marlboros. He was always talking to Sammy, his brother and business partner. Sammy relied on my father's help with his cases, which I knew never to ask questions about. I knew most of them were illegal to answer. That day, it was something about a bowling alley, something his brother couldn't handle alone and so, even though he was sick, he took the calls from Sammy's clients. "I gotta go, Chuck," he said, "No. I really gotta go. I'm with my daughter." He sputtered a few rushed goodbyes and then snapped his phone shut and slipped it into the large, floppy pockets of his sweatpants. "Jesus," he muttered. "What?" I asked. "Listen," he said, "Don't ever be a lawyer. Being a lawyer means people expect you to solve all their problems all the...

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